


Nostalgia

by ritazien



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:12:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritazien/pseuds/ritazien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of Steve is stuck in the past, but Tony Stark is more interested in the Steve Rogers right here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nostalgia

Tony watches him from the doorway. Steve is rummaging through some of Tony's old boxes, and pauses when he finds a photograph. He holds up the frame for a moment, puts it aside and glances back into the box, the one marked with Howard's name. There's a lot of old junk lying around down here, crap S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't want but that Tony can’t bring himself to toss. Steve sits down slowly, nothing in his hands, everything in the glimpse of his face Tony can take from here. He shouldn't interrupt. He shouldn't even be here, he knows this is a violation of whatever moment Steve is having, but his body doesn't want to turn away. So he takes a step into the room. 

“Nostalgia is for people who don't have a future,” he says, and Steve stands and turns on reflex. It's barely a second before he recognises Tony and his stance relaxes, looking away in some attempt to hide his contempt for Tony's words.

“I don't believe that.”

“Neither do I,” he shrugs, and moves further into the dim room, the low lighting obscuring Steve's features but probably not his vision, super soldier and all. “My dad used to say it.”

“Howard said that to you?” Steve asks, not with judgement or curiosity, but like it's another piece to this madness that Tony is still trying to figure out as well.

“More to himself, I think.”

Steve nods and turns back to the box. Tony stares at his back, thinking this would be the moment to excuse himself. Or the moment to join him. He's made a habit of going with his second ideas first, and isn't there a saying like that somewhere? A step at a time and he's at Steve's side, a position that's as natural in this moment as it is in the field. A familiar feeling settles in his chest, one he's long since identified as longing, with the same edge of tension that usually accompanies it. He focuses on the box in front of him, away from the one Steve is sorting through, and attempts to blocks out everything else, including the man beside him. It's not quite possible to do yet, but he's getting so much better at pretending, and there's a happy kind of solace in it. Never let it be said that Tony Stark can’t avoid emotional problems until they come back to bite him in the ass. He intends to put that off here as long as possible.

In the corner of his eye, Tony notices Steve pulling at something on the bottom of the box. Another tug and it's out, and Tony turns his attention to him, for real.

“What's that?”

Steve smiles sadly, and Tony tears his eyes from it to the creased picture in his hands. Steve Rogers, a skinny kid, standing with a beautiful woman in uniform whose eyes are almost as light as his. Peggy Carter. It was a different time, a different _lifetime_ for Steve, and Tony frowns. That is a Steve he'll never know, but he's fine with that. This man in front of him, with every piece of history that makes him this person, that makes him matter, is the one Tony gives a shit about. Skinny Steve Rogers with a thing for Peggy Carter - even post-serum, war-time Captain America, are simply pieces of this person. And it's the accumulation of those versions that Tony is staring at, that Tony will think about as he stares at his bedroom ceiling. This is the Steve Rogers that matters right now.

Steve raises his eyes to meet Tony's, and his expression shifts in reaction to whatever is showing on Tony’s expression. It's one, two, three, four seconds that Tony loses track of, before he clears his throat and averts his eyes, back to the picture.

“Do you miss it?” he asks, folding his arms and resting his hip against a stack of precariously positioned boxes.

Steve looks down. “Sometimes.”

“Everything your life was is gone, and you're telling me only sometimes?”

“I'm glad I got a second chance.”

Tony huffs and turns back to his box. “The whole world is, but that's not the question.”

“Tony, yes. Of course I miss it. But I'm adapting. There's good to this era, too.”

“Mm, can't beat the internet,” Tony says, glancing over at him. Their eyes meet for a brief moment, and then they're back to their boxes.

“Right.”

They spend a few more minutes in silence, elbows brushing occasionally and making Tony tense with self-control. He's never excelled in that area. Finally, bored of his father's old gadgets, he sighs and turns back to Steve.

“Would you go back if you could?” he asks, knowing he's pushing it, but figures he's allowed this vice, at least over the others he's had to rein in over the years.

“No,” Steve sighs, exasperated. “I wouldn't.” He looks down at the picture in his hands, up at Tony, and hoists his box up onto a tall stack of them. “And I'm done with the past right now.” He pockets the picture, and pauses for another lingering gaze that Tony knows isn't intended to pierce the way it does. With a curt nod of goodbye, he strides out of the room and up the stairs, and Tony just listens, even after he's gone and the only sound is water running through pipes. He picks up a picture left on the table, the one of pre-serum Steve and war-hero Peggy, slips it back into his box, and wonders which photo Steve took with him. Something to the same end, he imagines.

He doesn't mention it.

Days pass, a minor battle is fought, Avengers-family dinners are cheerily had, and he doesn't forget, but his memory prioritises a brief touch and a small smile.

It's evening now, and Tony is walking into the kitchen, just finished up with Bruce in the lab downstairs. It is empty of any human/super-human/Norse-god life, much to his disappointment. He's still wired from coffee and breakthroughs, and feels, not unusually, like company. Bruce has gone off in search of the nearest couch to crash on, Thor's been in Asgard the past week, and all he knows of Clint and Natasha is that they left this morning on some order of Hill’s. Steve must be around here somewhere. And Steve... Second idea, best idea.

He downs glass of water, washes the grease and chemicals off his hands, and heads out to the living room. Empty. The gym, empty. Steve's _bedroom_ , empty. Tony exhales loudly and stops suddenly at the sound of a rustle. He backs up into the hallway and there he is, Steve strolling down the hallway, pausing only a moment when he sees Tony.

“Cap, there you are.” He starts walking, meets him in the middle.

Steve hesitates, but stays, clearly still wanting to move, to move away. “Tony. I'm on my way out, did you need anything?”

“Where are you headed?” he asks, wanting closer as much as Steve is hanging to leave, and this is dangerous. He steps back, opens the space, tries uselessly to hold onto that positive energy that was buzzing through him a minute ago.

“To get charcoal. I'm all out, and pencils aren't working for me today.”

“Ah,” Tony nods, takes another step back and he's nearly against the wall now. “Go, then, let the creative spirit be with you.”

“Sure you don't need anything?”

“Not where you're going.”

He smiles, and heads on past Tony, leaving a vague scent in his wake, and Tony leans back on the wall, breathing like he'd forgotten to.

This isn't working.

That positive energy may be quieter now, but most of it is turning into frustration as he stands there, against the wall, filled with the same reckless vigour that's gotten him into trouble before. He doesn't expect right now is any different, but heads down the hall anyway. He stares into Steve's room, taking in the neat bed and desk, the waste basket full of crumpled paper, the pictures tacked to the wall that's he's seen before. He's seen it all before. There's nothing for him in this place, but it's all here because of Steve, and where else is he going to go?

He enters, carefully, the air as heavy with sincerity as the man himself, and pressing down on the fact that Tony shouldn't be in here. And it's not enough to just be here. Without Steve, without a real purpose, what the hell is he doing? If someone finds him? He's just looking. Actually, he's just looking for a picture. So he does, he starts looking. A desk drawer, the stacks of paper, and he is comfortable with this. Total invasions of privacy are fine if they're warranted, and that photograph Steve took, that's technically Tony's property. He quietly hums to himself as he wanders over to the bed. He sits down, leans across to the bedside table, opens that drawer, and still nothing. This bullshit investigation is surprisingly turning up nothing. He sits back and looks around the room. This is probably his worst idea (okay, maybe second to that time he got his house blown up by terrorists), but he can't bring himself to feel anything like regret. A little disappointment, maybe, but to be honest there's not a lot in his life that doesn't involve at least some disappointment.

Whatever he's feeling, he stands and walks out of the room. Regret or no regret, a bad idea is a bad idea. The best counter? A good idea, and when it comes to being Tony Stark, he's got more than a few of those. He jogs down the hall, and then down a few more halls, down a few floors, until he's in his workshop. And here, he gets to work.

His Iron Man suits stand ignored along the walls, his attention on the large bench he is leaning over. Tools and gadgets littering the space, his focus is on the shield, his periphery disappears, and he works for hours into the night. 

The shield, stronger, lighter and etched with stars, needing only a coat of paint, and then a new quiver that folds into a new back-piece for Clint. He is scrutinizing a set of widow's bites when heavy footfalls on sensitive steps jolt him out of his concentration. With a buzz, the doors open and Steve walks in, all confident strides and compassionate eyes. He's wearing a tight shirt and sweatpants, like he's going to bed, or been in bed – what's the time? - and Tony's memory flashes to an image of the same man, smaller, in loose plaid. The 21 st century has done him well.

“Are you alright, Tony?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” he responds, glancing back at the bracelet, chewing the gum he doesn't remember putting in his mouth. “What's up?”

“It's two am, I haven't seen you since I left earlier.”

“Aw, checking up on me?” He narrows his eyes at a fried wire.

“Yeah.” Steve wanders over to his side, leans on the bench next to him, an echo of their positions in the basement a few days ago.

“Can't sleep, huh?” Tony turns around, facing the bench, not looking at Steve.

“Not well.”

“Nightmares?”

“Memories.”

Tony nods and places the widow's bites on the bench. He loses the gum to the trash can under the bench and looks up finally, seriously, to meet Steve's gaze. “You doing okay?”

Steve shrugs, crosses his arms. “I spend days thinking about the team, Natasha, Sam, and nights with Peggy and Dr. Erskine.” His gaze shifts across Tony's face. “Howard.”

Tony bows his head, picks up a screwdriver and flips it between his fingers. “And your pal, the Winter Soldier?"

“Don't call him that.”

“Barnes, then. Day or night?”

“Both,” he mutters.

“Well,” Tony turns so his hip is against the bench, and they're facing. He has to look up a little to find eye contact. It's a little uncomfortable, on both parts, he can sense that, and shifts where he's standing. “You're down here now, does that make me a two am issue?” He taps his palm against the end of the screwdriver.

“Sometimes. Sometimes you're a two pm issue.” Steve looks away, around, notices the shield.

Tony watches him, and Steve walks over to the shield, picks it up. His eyebrows lift.

“This feels good.”

“Just needs a coat of paint.”

“Can't be Captain America without stars and stripes.”

“No, that would be ridiculous,” Tony deadpans.

Steve places the shield back where it was hanging and glances at Clint’s chevron back-piece. “You haven't been working on Iron Man?”

“It's not going anywhere.”

He turns back to Tony, pauses. “Good.”

“Well, Nat'll be back tomorrow, I should get to this,” Tony says, picking the widow's bites back up.

“Can I help?” Steve asks, moving slowly back to the bench.

“I guess I could use another pair of hands.”

Steve smiles, and Tony has to look away, a strange mix of elation and emptiness like a cavity in his chest. He places the bracelet on Steve's open palm and takes his other hand, bringing it to hold the thing still. As his fingers close around Steve's, though, his breath stops and he can't bring himself to move any faster than the slow draw as he brings the hand up. He releases it, breathes in deeply, and guides it back to the base of the bracelet. Steve's fingers don't close around it, though, as Tony leans down, and he looks up to tell him, to tell him something, but Steve is just staring. He reaches back for Tony's hand and wraps his fingers around Tony's wrist. Tony's hand clenches with helplessness and he straightens, but that increases the distance between them, an unnatural feeling that apparently Steve can't stand either. One step and they're too close, and his hand is sliding down and off Tony's wrist.

Tony's hand, still hovering in the air, raises to Steve's jaw, and then the bracelet is on the bench with a _thud_ and Steve's hand is sliding around his waist. Tony leans in, up, and presses their lips together, nerves that he's not used to making this feel both right and strange. There's no more room to close, but Steve moves in further and Tony turns them both so his own back is to the bench. Steve's hand tightens on his shirt and Tony's hands migrate to his neck, around to his throat, his chest, and he pulls away a moment.

“You're okay with this?” he asks, moving back to hold Steve's neck.

“Does it look like I'm arguing?” His grip tightens around Tony's waist and he lifts him enough that Tony gets the message and hops up on the bench.

One move and they're kissing again, Tony's legs pressed into Steve's sides. Steve is against the table, his mouth on Tony's neck, and Tony, breath hitched, brings it back to his own. It's open and easy and a little starved and it doesn't matter that this wasn't happening before because it's happening now and it's a hand on his thigh and Steve's hair in his fingers. His hands move down, brushing along Steve's chest as he heads downward, curling round his thin cotton shirt, releasing, pressing into the skin underneath. Steve's hand comes to grip the back of Tony's neck, his kiss fiercer with every touch. Tony's thumbs slide into his pockets, his palms firm on Steve's hips, and he feels something crumple. Ignoring it, he slides up an inch, but Steve is tense, pulling away.

“What-” Tony breathes, digging his fingertips into Steve's hips as he tries to back off. “Stop.”

He stops, his hand holding onto Tony's, and slips the other into his pocket. He pulls out a folded piece of paper, or card, or, no, a photo. He holds it out to Tony, who takes it, curious. He glances at Steve before unfolding it, the ageing paper crinkling slightly in his grip. As flat as he can get it, the picture takes a moment to recognise, but the recognition doesn’t explain much.

“I was going to put it back, but someone's moved the boxes downstairs.”

Tony snorts. “I certainly don't want it.” He raises an eyebrow at the picture of himself, God knows how many years ago, working on one of his first prize (obviously) science fair projects. He did look happy there. And this was in Steve's pocket...

“Why do you have this?” He meets Steve's eyes, and the way Steve is looking at him isn't unfamiliar, but in this new context it sends a different kind of rush through him. He is decidedly a big fan of this context.

“I needed a reference.”

“You... What, you drew this?”

“I-”

“You _drew me_?”

“Tony.”

He sits back, the photograph still clutched in his hand, and he's staring at Steve, who looks like he's about to start in with a string of unnecessary apologies.

“Tony, I-”

Tony shakes his head, and he doesn't want to think about the expression on his face that's creeping out with a smile. “Show me.”

“Now?” he asks, his hand sliding up Tony's thigh.

Tony grins and jumps off the bench. “Yes, now.”

“It's not finished,” Steve says, letting himself be dragged out of the workshop by Tony.

He rolls his eyes. “Oldest excuse in the book.”

“If you say so.” Steve shifts Tony's grip on him so they're walking the halls hand in hand, and feels a little kick in his stomach.

Steve pulls him into his bedroom, and it's... not unfamiliar. But being here with Steve, like this, it feels like it should. Steve leans in, presses his lips to Tony’s jaw, and Tony sighs, leans in against him. His hands on Steve’s waist, and he tilts his head to move away but can’t bring himself to interrupt this, and he really can’t as Steve’s light kisses on his neck are getting harder, and his fingers are back up in his hair, and he knows there will be bruises come morning.

“Hey,” he mutters. Steve pulls himself away, stares at him from an unbearable distance, waiting, and Tony closes him back in a kiss. This is where they should be. Tony pushes against Steve, who, hands around his waist, pulls Tony in return, and they’re moving together, legs tangling, to fall onto the bed with a sharp breath. Tony sits up, runs a hand through his own hair, and when his gaze catches Steve’s, they’re both laughing.

Steve opens the draw next to the bed and takes out a sketchpad, hands it to him. Tony takes it, and then he just stares. He knew Steve was an artist, he’s seen some of his work before, and maybe this only seems different because it’s him, because it’s him, through Steve’s eyes, but it’s… It’s amazing. It’s indisputably the best picture of him that exists. And it’s not just him as a kid - that’s just the background,him working on his project, a sketch that fades into the main focus - him as he is now, determination in his eyes and his mouth curled in the ghost of a smile. But he’s not carrying all his power on his shoulders, he doesn’t look tired and he’s not smirking. Every photoshoot he’s ever posed for has ended up as some variation of the same image: cocky, headstrong, top of the world or beaten to the lowest rungs. It’s how he projects himself, it’s how the world demands he be perceived. In Steve’s picture, he just looks like a man; a man who can still access U.S. nuclear launch codes, but who can also smile like it wouldn’t cost him anything.

“How did you do this?” he asks, laughter gone. Steve is equally serious, but he’s watching, he’s just watching Tony process this.

“I had inspiration.”

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

Tony snorts, smiles and feels it around his own eyes. “And you were so humble.”

Steve shifts, reaches out for the waist of Tony’s pants, and pulls him closer. “You’ve been a bad influence.”

Tony’s breath is shallow. “Glad I’ve made an impression,” he murmurs, moving to sit down where he’s straddling Steve’s lap. Steve’s eyes widen just slightly, and they’re suspended in this moment.

“I’m glad you’re here, Tony.”

“Me too.”

“I’m glad…” He glances down, raises his brow. “Maybe this isn’t fair - I’m glad it was you who got me out of that ice.”

“I inherited that particular task.” Tony presses a kiss to Steve’s temple and pulls back slowly. He wants more, he wants everything of Steve, but he shifts to sit up against the headboard next to him, and if he’s taking this by seconds, if he forces himself into this exact moment - Steve next to him, Tony’s shoulder fitting in behind his, legs wrapped over his, their hands loose and winding together - it’s more than what he needs. It’s more than what he’s had.

“Yeah.”

Their eyes lock, and he searches Steve’s, trying to understand what he’s saying. “What if my dad had found a way to get you out?”

“I probably wouldn’t be alive right now.”

The serum slows the ageing process, and Steve in battle, well it’s hard to get the best of him. But Captain America? Over sixty years, Captain America probably wouldn’t have lasted as well as he might. After all, the public loves a hero, but a hero can only be around long enough to become a myth or a martyr.

So no, Steve probably wouldn’t be alive right now. “You’d be a legend,” Tony mutters.

“Sometimes I think I should have stayed one.”

“No,” Tony says simply, solemnly, and leans in to kiss him. It’s slow and burning and leaves an ache in his chest when their lips part.

“No,” Steve agrees, and moves so he’s half leaning into, half holding over Tony. He leans in softly and presses their lips together again, and Tony’s head spins. As Steve pulls back, a yawn comes over him, and Steve chuckles, looks up at him from beneath those eyelashes and it is not fair.

“When was the last time you slept?” he asks, suspicious.

Tony squints. “32, 33 hours ago? It was… before yesterday. I slept before yesterday.”

Steve sighs and lays back against his pillow, drags the blanket up from the bottom of the bed to cover Tony. He drags it half-heartedly across Steve as well, and turns to his side so they’re just looking at each other. God, he’s exhausted. Lying down was not a good idea. But oh, Steve’s hand is sliding over his and he can’t complain.

He wants to speak, he wants to tell Steve about the warmth in the pit of his stomach, the space that’s been empty too long, he knows the words could spill so easily but he doesn’t. This friendship they’ve built has all but made insecurity impossible, but he’s still Tony. He has the words in his throat, but his mouth isn’t used to that much honesty. So Tony glances down, closes his eyes for a moment, and forces them open again. It’s Steve who has something to say.

“Tony…”

“Yeah?”

“I have a new lead.”

“Barnes?”

“Yeah.”

Tony is silent. The world feels a little more uneven, and he doesn’t want to keep his eyes open, but he does. He looks at Steve, lips pressed tight. He nods, small against the pillow, and sees Steve swallow.

“How long?”

“I don’t know. I’ll be in contact.”

“There’s no guarantee of that,” Tony sighs. There are always complications, and James Buchanan Barnes? He’s the most complicated Steve could find. But he found him. He found a lead. This sucks, this _sucks_. But Tony understands it more than he’d like.

“You know Nat’ll go with you.”

“I know.”

Tony pauses. “I’ll be here.”

“I’ll be back.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Steve leans into Tony, presses a kiss behind his ear. “You have to sleep.”

Tony turns around without another look at him, and they press together. Tony takes a deep breath, knows he can’t fight sleep without at least another three cups of coffee, and that’s not happening.

“You have terrible timing,” he mutters, and feels Steve’s quiet sigh against his neck.

After that, he doesn’t remember falling asleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I should mention: "Nostalgia is for people who don't have a future," is actually a line from the comic Phonogram by Gillen and McKelvie, which is amazing, and reading that felt like something that would fit into Steve and Tony, so this happened.


End file.
